Reflections Lyrics Quotes

In My Daughter's Eyes Lyrics In my daughter's eyes I am a hero I am strong and wise and I know no fear But the truth is plain to see She was sent to rescue me I see who I want to be In my daughter's eyes In my daughter's eyes Everyone is equal Darkness turns to light And the world is at peace This miracle God gave to me Gives me strength when I'm weak I find reason to believe In my daughter's eyes And when she wraps her hand around my finger Oh it puts a smile in my heart Everything becomes a little clearer I realize what life is all about It's hangin' on when your heart Is had enough It's givin' more when you feel like givin' up I've seen the light It's in my daughter's eyes In my daughter's eyes I can see the future A reflection of who I am And what we'll be And though she'll grow and someday leave Maybe raise a family When I'm gone I hope you'll see How happy she made me For I'll be there In my daughter's eyes

When you think the night has seen your mind, That inside you're twisted and unkind, Let me stand to show that you are blind. Please put down you hands 'cause I see you. I'll be you mirror, reflect what you are. I'll Be Your Mirror

I touched my lips to hers again, and this time, it was a very different sort of kiss. It was six years’ worth of kissing, her lips coming to life under mine, tasting of orange and of desire. Her fingers ran through my sideburns and into my hair before linking around my neck, alive and cool on my warm skin. I was wild and tame and pulled into shreds and crushed into being all at once. For once in my human life, my mind didn’t wander to compose a song lyric or store the moment for later reflection. For once in my life, I was here and nowhere else. -Sam

I've had people come up to me with the strangest interpretations of what my lyrics might mean, and I'm like, "You go! I never thought of that, but that works,"...I think that true art is a universal reflection, and true artists are just messengers of that reflection or, at best, skilled presentors.

I tried to fit language into the shape of usefulness. The world moves through words as if the bodies the words reflect do not exist.

He fell in love with Manhattan's skyline, like a first-time brothel guest falling for a seasoned professional. He mused over her reflections in the black East River at dusk, dawn, or darkest night, and each haloed light-in a tower or strung along the jeweled and sprawling spider legs of the Brooklyn Bridge's spans-hinted at some meaning, which could be understood only when made audible by music and encoded in lyrics.

The street lamps glowed like ripe oranges among the bare boughs. Below in the wet street their globes glimmered down and down, to drown in their own reflections.

Sometimes you read something and a thought that was floating around in your veins organizes itself into the sentence that reflects it.

Little girl, little boy If love has a way Fill their fields with laughter And scatter the sun on their day And if it should happen to rain Make their raindrops kisses Straight from heaven above That touch their hands and faces And that fill them with love And make the moon reflect their smiles And their stars plenty And, above all, keep them together And hold them as you may Forever and ever Until their last day.

I'll be your mirror Reflect what you are In case you don't know I'll be the sun The wind and the rain The light on your door To show that you're home. When you think the nights is in your mind, That inside you're twisted and unkind Let me stand to show that you are blind Please put down your hands, 'cause I see you. I find it hard To believe you don't know The beauty you are But if you don't Let me be your eyes A hand to your darkness So you won't be afraid. When you think the night is in your mind That inside you're twisted and unkind Let me stand to show that you are blind Please put down your hands, 'cause I see you. I'll be your mirror.

I walk a road of lessons earned, life paved for me to learn With every passing day, paying my dues away

I'll be your mirror, Reflect what you are, In case you don't know. I'll Be Your Mirror

We heard the Sermon on the Mount and I knew it was too complex, It didn't amount to anything more than what the broken glass reflects. When you bite off more than you can chew you pay the penalty, Somebody's got to tell the tale, I guess it must be up to me. –Bob Dylan, “Up To Me

The moon occurs more frequently than the sun as an image in lyric poetry. There is a greater contrast between the moon and the night sky than there is between the sun and the daytime sky. And this contrast is more conducive to sorrow, which always separates or isolates itself, than it is to happiness, which always joins or blends. And to stand face-to-face with the sun is preposterous -- it would blind you. The moon has no light of its own; our apprehension of it is but a reflection of the sun. And some believe artists reflect the creative powers of some original impulse too great to name. The moon is the incunabulum of photography, the first photograph, the first stilled moment, the first study in contrasts. Me here -- you there. Between 1969 and 1972, six missions left for the moon and six missions came back. The men who went to the moon who were forever altered without exception all say the same thing -- it was not being on the moon that profoundly affected them as much as it was looking at the earth from the vantage point of the moon. You there -- me here.

I drown myself in liquids of all kind Pour me another fiery glass of wine Volcanoes flash before my eyes I fear the love I left behind

The story of the rapper and the story of the hustler are like rap itself, two kinds of rhythm working together, having a conversation with each other, doing more together than they could do apart. It's been said that the thing that makes rap special, that makes it different both from pop music and from written poetry, is that it's built around two kinds of rhythm. The first kind of rhythm is the meter. In poetry, the meter is abstract, but in rap, the meter is something you literally hear: it's the beat. The beat in a song never stops, it never varies. No matter what other sounds are on the track, even if it's a Timbaland production with all kinds of offbeat fills and electronics, a rap song is usually built bar by bar, four-beat measure by four-beat measure. It's like time itself, ticking off relentlessly in a rhythm that never varies and never stops. When you think about it like that, you realize the beat is everywhere, you just have to tap into it. You can bang it out on a project wall or an 808 drum machine or just use your hands. You can beatbox it with your mouth. But the beat is only one half of a rap song's rhythm. The other is the flow. When a rapper jumps on a beat, he adds his own rhythm. Sometimes you stay in the pocket of the beat and just let the rhymes land on the square so that the beat and flow become one. But sometimes the flow cops up the beat, breaks the beat into smaller units, forces in multiple syllables and repeated sounds and internal rhymes, or hangs a drunken leg over the last bap and keeps going, sneaks out of that bitch. The flow isn't like time, it's like life. It's like a heartbeat or the way you breathe, it can jump, speed up, slow down, stop, or pound right through like a machine. If the beat is time, flow is what we do with that time, how we live through it. The beat is everywhere, but every life has to find its own flow. Just like beats and flows work together, rapping and hustling, for me at least, live through each other. Those early raps were beautiful in their way and a whole generation of us felt represented for the first time when we heard them. But there's a reason the culture evolved beyond that playful, partying lyrical style. Even when we recognized the voices, and recognized the style, and even personally knew the cats who were on the records, the content didn't always reflect the lives we were leading. There was a distance between what was becoming rap's signature style - the relentlessness, the swagger, the complex wordplay - and the substance of the songs. The culture had to go somewhere else to grow. It had to come home.

But he played music so loudly he could not hear his pain. He stunted his growth beneath a bass that decorated his aura and lyrics that hardened the glass parts of him. He was indeed an autumn leaf dipped in concrete. He wanted sound, any sound but his own thoughts. Ears that needed songs louder than the mind were ears afraid of what they might hear inside.

Because the foundations for loneliness begin in the dreamscapes you create. Their resemblance to reality reflects disappointment first.

are a reflection of how I feel. To me, lyrics are harder to write when you have to invent the feelings behind them. That’s when lyrics take a lot of thought, when they aren’t genuine.

Our life story is a reflection of our internal poetry in motion, a poem which lyrical lines croons life as a groping accident, a playful roughness, a throbbing ordeal. Life’s posy permutations jell together to create a brawly emotional ambiguity. An interlacement of untidy paradoxes, fastened by a tincture of pyretic hopelessness, sounds the charming pitch of life.

Dancers can look at a mirror, a writer can look at a page, and a painter can look at a canvas and see their work reflected back at them. But singers can only hear and feel what they are doing. After all the training, technique, use of breath, and placement of sound, it boils down to an emotional response to music and lyrics---and the way they touch one's heart and soul.

Sometimes we get into the mood for sad songs. The lyrics always hit deeper with this melancholic feeling that you engulf yourself with. Along with coffee this combination is a great way to reflect and savor the moment.

I was wild and tame and pulled into shreds and crushed into being all at once. For once in my human life, my mind didn’t wander to compose a song lyric or store the moment for later reflection. For once in my life, I was here and nowhere else. And

A single word can brighten the face of one who knows the value of words. Ripened in silence, a single word acquires a great energy for work. War is cut short by a word, and a word heals the wounds, and there's a word that changes poison into butter and honey. Let a word mature inside yourself. Withhold the unripened thought. Come and understand the kind of word that reduces money and riches to dust. Know when to speak a word and when not to speak at all. A single word turns the universe of hell into eight paradises. Follow the Way. Don't be fooled by what you already know. Be watchful. Reflect before you speak. A foolish mouth can brand your soul. Yunus, say one last thing about the power of words -- Only the word "I" divides me from God.

Music is reflection of self We just explain it, and then we get our checks in the mail It's fucked up, ain't it? How we can come from practically nothin To bein able to have any f*ckin thing that we wanted That's why we sing for these kids who don't have a thing Except for a dream and a f*ckin rap magazine Who post pin-up pictures on they walls all day long Idolize they favorite rappers and know all they songs Or for anyone who's ever been through shit in they lives So they sit and they cry, at night, wishin they'd die Til they throw on a rap record and they sit and they vibe We're nothin to you, but we're the f*ckin sh*t in they eyes That's why we seize the moment Try to freeze it and own it, squeeze it and hold it Cause we consider these minutes golden And maybe they'll admit it when we're gone Just let our spirits live on Through our lyrics that you hear in our songs, and we can…

I was grinding away to the climactic moan backtrack when I caught my reflection in the club’s mirror, hips rotating, booty shaking. Years later, Grace described my smooth moves as a sad epileptic white girl’s imitation of a twerk. Harsh. Could anyone look sexy dancing to lyrics that include “Sucky, sucky. Me sucky, sucky”? I don’t think so.

Churches, politicians, even some educational institutions teach hate and normalize it long before it ends up in a song lyric or being parroted in an interview by a newly famous sixteen-year-old. In that way the hood is a reflection of the wider world. We don’t have bigotry by accident; it’s built and sustained by the same cultural institutions we’re taught to revere.

Dancers can look at a mirror, a writer can look at a page, and a painter can look at a canvas and see their work reflected back at them. But singers can only hear and feel what they are doing. After all the training, technique, use of breath, and placement of sound, it boils down to an emotional response to music and lyrics---and the way they touch one's heart and soul

I think, when singing, one exposes one’s soul,” I said. “How so?” I struggled to explain. “Dancers can look at a mirror, a writer can look at a page, and a painter can look at a canvas and see their work reflected back at them. But singers can only hear and feel what they are doing. After all the training, technique, use of breath, and placement of sound, it boils down to an emotional response to music and lyrics—and the way they touch one’s heart and soul.

There’s a definite depressive streak in Finns, more so than in their western neighbours. While they aren’t among Europe’s biggest drinkers per capita, the incidence of alcoholism is high. The winter darkness can strain even the most optimistic soul – seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is significant here and suicide levels are higher than the comfortable standard of living would predict. The melancholic trend is reflected in Finns’ love of darkly themed music and lyrics of lost love

In the eleventh century, a French archdeacon challenged the Church’s faith that the Blessed Sacrament was in fact the Body and Blood of Christ. Pope Gregory VII (reigned 1073–85) responded with a definitive statement of what the Church had always believed. After the controversy was resolved, Eucharistic adoration began to flourish. The Church soon instituted processions of the Blessed Sacrament, prescribed rules for Eucharistic adoration, and encouraged the faithful to visit Our Lord reserved in the churches. The martyr St. Thomas à Becket (1118–70), for example, once wrote to a friend that he often prayed for him in the church before “the Majesty of the Body of Christ.” In 1226, after King Louis VII of France (1120–80) won a victory over the Albigensian heretics who had taken up arms against him, he asked the Bishop of Avignon to have the Blessed Sacrament exposed for adoration in the Chapel of the Holy Cross. The faithful who came to adore were so numerous that the bishop allowed the adoration to continue indefinitely, day and night. This decision was later ratified by the pope, and adoration at Avignon continued uninterrupted until 1792, when the French Revolution halted the devotion. It was resumed, however, in 1829. Also in the thirteenth century, Pope Urban the IV (reigned 1261–64) instituted the Feast of Corpus Christi (the Body of Christ), commissioning St. Thomas Aquinas to write hymns for the feast. The lyrics for these compositions reflect a profound awareness of Christ’s abiding Presence with us in the Blessed Sacrament and of the reverence, adoration, and gratitude we owe Him for that surpassing Gift. In

Marriage, after all, was the known, not the unknown: the dull dinner party, not the madcap masquerade. It was a set of issues and events that audiences knew all too well offscreen. Unlike the wide-open frontier of the western, offering freedom and adventure, or the lyrical musical, with its fantasy of release through singing and dancing, or the woman's film, with its placing of a marginalized social figure (the woman) at the center of the universe, or the gangster movie, with its violent excitement and obvious sexual freedom, the marriage film had to reflect what moviegoers already had experienced: marriage, in all its boredom and daily responsibilities.

Then Lennon meanders off into catty talk about Dylan’s new single, “Gotta Serve Somebody,” accusing him of wanting to be a waiter for Christ. Lennon eviscerates Jerry Wexler’s whole Slow Train Coming production that the single conjures: Dylan’s singing is pathetic, he says, the lyrics embarrassing. Surveying the 1979 rock scene, Lennon remarks how the Mighty Dylan, McCartney, and Jagger seem to be sliding down a mountain, blood with mud in their nails. This leads to a reflection on how competitive he used to feel with fellow rock stars, and how silly it all seems from his new vantage. Even a couple of years back he remembers the anxious panic such competition induced. Now there doesn’t seem to be much use to listen to their albums. He still sends out for them, but they all sound pointless.

The usual short story cannot have a complex plot, but it often has a simple one resembling a chain with two or three links. The short short, however, doesn't as a rule have even that much - you don't speak of a chain when there's only one link. ... Sometimes ... the short short appears to rest on nothing more than a fragile anecdote which the writer has managed to drape with a quantity of suggestion. A single incident, a mere anecdote - these form the spine of the short short. Everything depends on intensity, one sweeping blow of perception. In the short short the writer gets no second chance. Either he strikes through at once or he's lost. And because it depends so heavily on this one sweeping blow, the short short often approaches the condition of a fable. When you read the two pieces by Tolstoy in this book, or I.L. Peretz's 'If Not Higher,' or Franz Kafka's 'The Hunter Gracchus,' you feel these writers are intent upon 'making a point' - but obliquely, not through mere statement. What they project is not the sort of impression of life we expect in most fiction, but something else: an impression of an idea of life. Or: a flicker in darkness, a slight cut of being. The shorter the piece of writing, the more abstract it may seem to us. In reading Paz's brilliant short short we feel we have brushed dangerously against the sheer arbitrariness of existence; in reading Peretz's, that we have been brought up against a moral reflection on the nature of goodness, though a reflection hard merely to state. Could we say that the short short is to other kinds of fiction somewhat as the lyric is to other kinds of poetry? The lyric does not seek meaning through extension, it accepts the enigmas of confinement. It strives for a rapid unity of impression, an experience rendered in its wink of immediacy. And so too with the short short. ... Writers who do short shorts need to be especially bold. They stake everything on a stroke of inventiveness. Sometimes they have to be prepared to speak out directly, not so much in order to state a theme as to provide a jarring or complicating commentary. The voice of the writer brushes, so to say, against his flash of invention. And then, almost before it begins, the fiction is brought to a stark conclusion - abrupt, bleeding, exhausting. This conclusion need not complete the action; it has only to break it off decisively. Here are a few examples of the writer speaking out directly. Paz: 'The universe is a vast system of signs.' Kafka in 'First Sorrow': The trapeze artist's 'social life was somewhat limited.' Paula Fox: 'We are starving here in our village. At last, we are at the center.' Babel's cossack cries out, 'You guys in specs have about as much pity for chaps like us as a cat for a mouse.' Such sentences serve as devices of economy, oblique cues. Cryptic and enigmatic, they sometimes replace action, dialogue and commentary, for none of which, as it happens, the short short has much room. There's often a brilliant overfocussing. ("Introduction")

Life does not offer gifts or rewards, but opportunities. Nobody is entitled to anything. Only behavior and labor defines us and what we have. Whenever you make a choice, you follow one path and move apart from another. If your job occupies more importance in your mind, time and actions, than your dream, then you will not accomplish your dream but maybe receive a raise in your salary instead and be happy with that loss. If you look at relationships as a toy store, if you look at your companion as easily replaceable, then you will very likely lose the one you have. If you rather enjoy life with your friends than with your companion, you will end up alone. If you insult the wise, you then end up surrounded by fools. If you neglect your wealth, you will likely end up poor. If you destroy love, you will end up feeling unloved. If you destroy the good that comes to you, you will end up experiencing evil. Life will always reflect your actions, words and thoughts. You are what you spend most of your time doing, saying and thinking. Your life is always a reflection of your priorities. If you spend your time partying, insulting and occupying your mind with nonsense from social media, music with degrading lyrics, and movies that promote antisocial values, you get zero from life.

The 1890s were apprentice years for Yeats. Though he played with Indian and Irish mythology, his symbolism really developed later. The decade was for him, as a poet, the years of lyric, of the Rhymers’ Club, of those contemporaries whom he dubbed the ‘tragic generation’. ‘I have known twelve men who killed themselves,’ Arthur Symons looked back from his middle-aged madness, reflecting on the decade of which he was the doyen. The writers and artists of the period lived hectically and recklessly. Ernest Dowson (1867–1900) (one of the best lyricists of them all – ‘I cried for madder music and for stronger wine’) died from consumption at thirty-two; Lionel Johnson (1867–1902), a dipsomaniac, died aged thirty-five from a stroke. John Davidson committed suicide at fifty-two; Oscar Wilde, disgraced and broken by prison and exile, died at forty-six; Aubrey Beardsley died at twenty-six. This is not to mention the minor figures of the Nineties literary scene: William Theodore Peters, actor and poet, who starved to death in Paris; Hubert Crankanthorpe, who threw himself in the Thames; Henry Harland, editor of The Yellow Book, who died of consumption aged forty-three, or Francis Thompson, who fled the Hound of Heaven ‘down the nights and down the days’ and who died of the same disease aged forty-eight. Charles Conder (1868–1909), water-colourist and rococo fan-painter, died in an asylum aged forty-one.

My former girlfriend said: ‘You don’t deserve the house you have; it’s too good for you.’ I replied: “I found a house that matched all your criteria, to make you happy. If you lost it, and ended up sleeping in a filthy room in a shared apartment, is because you don’t deserve me, I was too good for you, you disappointed me by trying to find a guy that matches you better, and you made me very unhappy. Your priories were wrong.’ Life does not offer gifts or rewards, but opportunities. Nobody is entitled to anything. Only behavior and labor defines us and what we have. Whenever you make a choice, you follow one path and move apart from another. If your job occupies more importance in your mind, time and actions, than your dream, then you will not accomplish your dream but maybe receive a raise in your salary instead and be happy with that loss. If you look at relationships as a toy store, if you look at your companion as easily replaceable, then you will very likely lose the one you have. If you rather enjoy life with your friends than with your companion, you will end up alone. If you insult the wise, you then end up surrounded by fools. If you neglect your wealth, you will likely end up poor. If you destroy love, you will end up feeling unloved. If you destroy the good that comes to you, you will end up experiencing evil. Life will always reflect your actions, words and thoughts. You are what you spend most of your time doing, saying and thinking. Your life is always a reflection of your priorities. If you spend your time partying, insulting and occupying your mind with nonsense from social media, music with degrading lyrics, and movies that promote antisocial values, you get zero from life.

There is a way of living life, a mode of being religious that causes destruction wherever it appears. It is the misinterpretation of the concept of holiness. It was certainly an issue in Jesus’ day. The variety of the ‘Judaisms’ of Jesus’ day, the various schools or parties, the rabbinic schools of Hillel and Shammai . . . the Essenes . . . apocalyptic sects, mainstream elite like the Sadducees and marginalized Samaritans alike all held to some kind of holiness code, that behavior which made the people right before God. The Temple itself reflected gradations or strata of holiness, from the outer Court of the Gentiles to the Holy of Holies. This meta-map of the Temple was overlaid on Jewish society as well. Just as there were degrees of holy space in the Temple, so also in society various persons had various degrees of holiness . . . It was a hierarchical model, lived out by every group or party except one, that of Jesus. Yet, oddly enough we do not find this holiness language in Jesus’ teaching. Unlike the constant refrain of holiness in the Dead Sea Scrolls or the later Mishnah, Jesus has another set of lyrics using the same melody. Instead of “Be holy as I am holy” Jesus taught “Be merciful as your Father in heaven is merciful” (Luke 6:36). Mercy was for Jesus what holiness was to many of his contemporaries. Notice the same form is used but the substance has changed. Why is this? Because for Jesus, holiness was not a solution but a problem. Holiness caused ostracizing and exclusion; mercy brought reconciliation and re-socialization. Holiness depended on gradation and hierarchy; mercy broke through all barriers. Holiness differentiated persons based upon honor, wealth, family tree, religious affiliation; mercy recognized that God honors all, loves all and blesses all.

In this article, we embark on a journey to explore the timeless beauty of, their significance, and the impact they have on our lives. دل کی آواز ہے شعور کی زبان جذبات کی ترجمان، اردو کا فسانہ محبت کا سفر ہے یہ اردو کی نغمہ جب دلوں کو بھاگتا ہے، بے نیاز سامہ یادوں کی بستی میں بسایا ہے اردو کو حقیقتوں کو ہمسفر، ہمراز بنایا ہے اردو نے دل کو چھو جانے والی اردو کی باتیں روح کو جگا دیتی ہیں، احساس کی لہریں بھرتی ہیں اردو قواعدوں کے سائے شاعری کی بستی میں بہتی ہیں جلوے اردو کے لفظوں میں روشنی کی روشنی ہر تصویر، ہر احساس، سرمستی کی جوشنی یونہی بہتا رہے گا اردو کا سفر جدید دور کیا کہتا ہے، لبوں کا ورق The Essence of Urdu Quotes: Urdu quotes serve as windows to the soul, capturing complex emotions and experiences in just a few words. With their eloquence, they transcend boundaries of time and culture, resonating with individuals around the world. Whether it's about love, life, or spirituality, Urdu quotes beautifully express the depth of human emotions and offer glimpses of wisdom that can guide us through our journeys. The Power of Words: Urdu quotes hold a unique power. Each carefully chosen word carries weight and meaning, creating a powerful impact on the reader's mind. These quotes have the ability to inspire, motivate, and uplift spirits. They encapsulate life's truths in a poetic and concise manner, making them accessible to a wide audience. The Beauty of Urdu Language: Urdu, known for its lyrical qualities and mellifluous flow, adds an extra layer of charm to the quotes. Its poetic nature and rich vocabulary enable the creation of verses that resonate deeply with readers. Whether it's the delicate expressions of love or the introspective reflections on life's complexities, Urdu quotes possess a unique ability to stir emotions and touch the soul. Reflections of Culture and History: Urdu quotes reflect the cultural and historical tapestry of the region. They are imbued with the traditions, values, and experiences of generations. These quotes provide a glimpse into the literary heritage of renowned poets and philosophers, offering insights into their perspectives and contributions to Urdu literature. Urdu Quotes in the Modern Era: In today's digital age, Urdu quotes have found a new platform to reach audiences worldwide. Social media platforms and websites dedicated to Urdu literature have become havens for sharing and appreciating these poetic gems. People are rediscovering the beauty of Urdu quotes, and their popularity continues to soar, bridging gaps between different cultures and fostering a sense of unity. Conclusion: Urdu quotes are more than just words; they are a source of inspiration, solace, and introspection. They capture the essence of life's joys and sorrows, providing us with profound insights and guiding us on our journeys. As we delve into the world of Urdu quotes, we unlock a treasure trove of emotions and wisdom, reminding us of the power of language and the universal nature of human experiences. So, let us embrace the beauty of Urdu quotes and allow them to touch our hearts, inspire our souls, and create a deeper connection with ourselves and others.

Great is His Faithfulness     “Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:22-23).     At church on Sunday, they sang a song from the hymnbook called, “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” The lyrics were by Thomas Obediah Chisholm and music by William Marion Runyan. Although I had difficulty singing along, I paid close attention to the words. My favourite line was, “All I needed Thy hand hath provided.”   This verse resonated with my soul that day. It didn’t say, “All that I wanted” but rather, “All that I needed.” I took a moment to reflect on the last five years of my life and I was taken to my knees in awe and appreciation.   I wish that I had kept a journal of answered prayer. I think this is a brilliant idea. I have kept notes here and there and I have various journals that I write in every day, but I’ve never dedicated one book to just answered prayer.   There are so many little things that I pray for every day. My husband was working on my income tax on the computer when all of a sudden the program kicked him out. Two hours of work – lost. But it was restored within ten minutes without as much as one number out of place – an answer to prayer.   One of my cats was coughing and sneezing. She looked as if she had trouble breathing and took to hiding under a desk. Would she survive the night? Is it just a cold or something much worse like cat leukemia? The vet announced it only a virus – an answer to prayer.   On a four-hour hike with my mother, two aunts and my brother’s mother-in-law, the average age was 65. The terrain was full of obstacles with fallen trees, raspberry bush thorns, and slippery logs. We made the entire trip without incidence – an answer to prayer.  

Q-Tip (who produced “One Love”) says, reflecting on the importance of Illmatic. “You had rap before Rakim, like, you could do Rakim A.D., you know what I’m saying? There was rap before Rakim and rap after Rakim. So he’s like, when it comes to lyricism and when it comes to influence, if you’re drawing that analogy, he’s like Elvis, you know what I’m saying? And in terms of the innovation of what he did, Nas is like Dylan.

Reflections Awaiting Death When we met your love was lyrical like a placid lake which mirrors the heavens on a summer day. Through marriage your love was epical likethe stream which flows from the lake and blindly rushes on, reflecting its banks, forests, fields and cities. Now, as you lie there motionless and silent on the lap of death, your love is dramatic like the ocean which having swallowed the waters of the lakes and streams, rests contently in its measureless depths.

Reflecting back on those memories, I realized I learned not only my love of music in church, but also my theology through those hymns. It was through the lyrics we sang that I learned who God was and the attributes of his character.

Those in the room who knew the lyrics sang along to the song which reflected a person who is constantly down, distraught, and suffering, but ultimately will not complain-because Jesus is by their side. Not because Jesus will make sure things become easier or that their suffering will eventually end, but rather because if he is with you in your struggle, that's all that matters.

Mr. Whitman's poetry is timeless, and its profundity defies death." That, then, was Mr. Whitman. "And what name ascribes to his powerful book, Sir?" "Leaves of Grass," Robert asserted with such intensity, such rapture, the unharmed half of his face reddened almost as deeply as the damaged side. Leaves? Grass? Lavender's pulse quickened with the possibility that the book might pertain to botany. "At the train station you assured me I'd hear Whitman's words," she said. "And"---again, what boldness surged from her lips---"I mean to hold you to it." "Hold me to it, please, Miss Fitch. Time may not permit just now, but I'd like nothing better than to share Walt Whitman's genius. It makes a vast improvement over the topic of death--- though he expounds most lyrically on that topic, among a vast range of others." Again, Lavender wished she could preserve Robert's words, like beets in brine, or painted images on canvas, or a face suspended, by mercury vapor, on a silver plate, so she could more fully reflect upon them later.

We still tiptoe around having an honest discussion about what it really means to exist while Black in this country. All lives can’t matter if Black lives don’t matter. Demanding equality and equity isn’t radicalism. This is realism. We make these demands because the Constitution isn’t an accurate reflection of Black life in this country. If liberty escapes few, it escapes all.

I'd been dumped before. In first grade, a doe-eyed beauty named Shauna cut me loose. She never said why, but she did ask to move desks. In sixth grade, I'd been dumped by a sweet little Southern Baptist with gorgeous brown hair. When I asked why, she quoted a series of Janet Jackson lyrics prepared for this purpose. 'What have you done for me lately?' she said, with a snap of her chin, and ran away. I was blindsided, not by a self-reflection of my flaws, but by the stunning realization that Baptists were allowed to listen to Janet Jackson.

I’m sort of nervous you’ll find out Even though I want you to I’m sort of nervous you’ll be angry Even though I know that’s not you We’ve been through this all before And you never made me feel unsure But still A hush had fallen over the crowd as soon as she began to sing and Julie marveled at how different this atmosphere was from the raucous one the boys had described to her from their visit to the club. She wondered if Caleb would be satisfied with her slow and emotional song choice but if he was dissatisfied with her he didn’t show it on his face. He merely glanced around at the rapt expressions of the lifers and smirked. Julie allowed her eyes to slide over to her friends who were both watching her with knowing looks. She knew that the sadness in her lyrics was reflected in their eyes, that they felt sorry for her and that they ached for Luke too. She forced her gaze away from them, needing to focus on getting through the song and finding it almost impossible in the face of their pity. I’m sort of hopeful you’ll find out Even though that’s not fair I’m sort of hopeful you'll guess Even though I’m so scared I don’t know what the right choice is And part of me wants you to insist But still Despite all of the circumstances that made singing this particular song in this particular venue absolutely loaded down with baggage she found herself slipping into the zone she always occupied when performing. She could feel the heady rush of doing what she was meant to do in front of people hanging on her every word. She wished Luke was there to sing with her but she had also never been so glad that he wasn’t. She gripped the mic stand and raised her voice to new heights as she began the chorus. How do I tell you this isn’t where I belong? How do I tell you this was a tragedy all along? That we never had a chance At a happy ending at all Just a few brief stolen moments Between your heart and mine How do I tell you? How do I tell you? Goodbye She could hear emotion breaking through into her voice but she didn’t care. The ghost band once again seemed to sense what she had heard in her head and the music built and built before suddenly dropping to next to nothing. A few chords on the piano were all that accompanied the final verse as she gave it her all. I’m sort of happy we happened Even though I know the memories Will hurt I’m sort of happy we met here Even if it took a curse I know that I’ve made mistakes And some of them are hard to shake But still Julie allowed herself to truly see the audience for the first time. They were still watching her with awed expressions but something about the lighting in the club seemed different. There was a soft golden glow settling over the whole room. Julie blinked and the glow was gone. She barely had time to wonder if she had imagined it before the band came back in full force for the final chorus. How do I tell you this isn’t where I belong? How do I tell you this was a tragedy all along? That we never had a chance At a happy ending at all Just a few brief stolen moments Between your heart and mine How do I tell you? How do I tell you? Goodbye The band fell away again and Julie’s voice echoed through the ballroom alone on the final lines. How do I tell you? Goodbye

In the delicate dance of words, a poem reveals the beauty and complexity of the human experience, inviting us to ponder, reflect, and find solace in its lyrical embrace.

That what is imprisoned In a name and not seen Daylight, shall one day Spurt out as Spring. With The hope of recognition, Thus words here would Transform into Word Prism.

In the brilliance of the evening, Her lofty shadow skims the light. Caught between reflections weaving, Wings extended, gold and white. Lilting song, ballad sweetening, Songbird of the heavens gleaming. In all that is, in all that shall be. An angel with unearthly sight.

Outer influences and distractions Consider the power of external influences to condition your life experience. Spend a day watching how what you encounter impacts your attitude and spirit. Pay attention to what is usually mere background noise. Probe all sights, sounds, and touches as life swirls about. Listen to the radio carefully. Study the comments on talk shows. Listen to popular music lyrics and rhythms. Pay attention to words and worldview, tones and timbre. What and how do you feel as a result? Watch people at a shopping mall. How many appear trim and in vibrant health? How many look happy? What are people wearing and how are they groomed? What does their appearance suggest about your community’s values? Does the appearance of others affect how you feel? Chat with coworkers. What comes up about the economy, government, and company management? Suggest changes in attitudes and actions for more happiness or productivity. What kind of responses do they give you? Look at Internet discussions and news. What is the tone and logic of the posts? Does the commenters’ passion reflect their intellectual depth and degree of knowledge? How many stories are negative and how many are positive? Could any of the negative stories be written with a positive spin and still remain true? How do you feel about what you observe? Is it possible that even if you had not been paying close attention, those experiences out on the margin of awareness might have affected your mood or attitude?

Art reflects the current composition of a human soul. Perhaps when the artist finally arrives at the point of making art, an artist perceives all earlier drafts as remnants of their former loathsome self. Perhaps when the songwriter stops writing songs, the singer ceases singing, the musician no longer strums his or her instrument, and the poet no longer strings lyrical verses together they have entered a kingdom of one, a realm of aesthetical and ethical certitude. Perhaps when the writer who creates a piece of literature worthy of bestowing the exalted title of art, he or she must exhibit the same gracious manners by following suit by speaking no more.

Our hymnody needs attention, too. We need to sit down with our music ministers and go through each hymn each week, every song, everything that we sing as community and start to deconstruct them—examining each lyric with a fine-tooth comb. We need to demand that our hymnals stand with us in solidarity, and whenever whiteness is centered theologically, we need to demand that those words be changed. We can publish better work. It’s already being produced. We just need to gather a community of writers and musicians willing to share their gifts and work. We need to pay them for their work. The old classics can be revised and shifted to reflect a vision of the kingdom of God as it should be, not filtered through whiteness. To worship the creator through song is one of the great joys of gathering as church together. When we deconstruct and decolonize the symbols we use in worship, we can slowly but surely change the way that same God is imagined, experienced, and worshipped.

As ocean blushes the blues it can't absorb, reflecting back a day.

Life will always reflect your actions, words and thoughts. You are what you spend most of your time doing, saying and thinking. Your life is always a reflection of your priorities. If you spend your time partying, insulting and occupying your mind with nonsense from social media, music with degrading lyrics, and movies that promote antisocial values, you get zero from life.

It is not without good reason that the literary tradition of pastoral poetry can look back on an almost uninterrupted history of over two thousand years since its beginnings in Hellenism. With the exception of the early Middle Ages, when urban and court culture was extinguished, there have been variants of this poetry in every century. Apart from the thematic material of the novel of chivalry, there is probably no other subject-matter 15 that has occupied the literature of Western Europe for so long and maintained itself against the assaults of rationalism with such tenacity. This long and uninterrupted reign shows that ‘sentimental’ poetry, in Schiller’s sense of the word, plays an incomparably greater part in the history of literature than ‘naïve’ poetry. Even the idylls of Theocritus himself owe their existence not, as might be imagined, to genuine roots in nature and a direct relationship to the life of the common people, but to a reflective feeling for nature and a romantic conception of the common folk, that is, to sentiments which have their origin in a yearning for the remote, the strange and the exotic. The peasant and the shepherd are not enthusiastic about their surroundings or about their daily work. And interest in the life of the simple folk is, as we know, to be sought neither in spatial nor social proximity to the peasantry; it does not arise in the folk itself but in the higher classes, and not in the country but in the big towns and at the courts, in the midst of bustling life and an over-civilized, surfeited society. Even when Theocritus was writing his idylls, the pastoral theme and situation were certainly no longer a novelty; it will already have occurred in the poetry of the primitive pastoral peoples, but doubtless without the note of sentimentality and complacency, and probably also without attempting to describe the outward conditions of the shepherd’s life realistically. Pastoral scenes, although without the lyrical touch of the Idylls, were to be found before Theocritus, at any rate, in the mime. They are a matter of course in the satyr plays, and rural scenes are not unknown even to tragedy. But pastoral scenes and pictures of country life are not enough to produce bucolic poetry; the preconditions for this are, above all, the latent conflict of town and country and the feeling of discomfort with civilization.